


Lucky Bucky

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Avengers are Aces [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asexual Bucky, Asexual Character, Bed-sharing, Bruce Is a Good Bro, Buddies, Coming Out, Cuddling, Fluff, Happy Ending, Heterosexual Character, Locked to AO3 users, M/M, Minor Angst, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Relationship Negotiation, Sam is the only Adult in the Tower, Some pining, Steve is a fussy grandma, Tony is a literal child, biromantic Clint, comfortable silence, do not copy to another site, edited 6-26-2020 to add the actual coming out scene jfc, friends-to-lovers, hand holding, just a little kissing, late night tv, only not cuz they’re emotionally constipated dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Insomnia makes for strange bedfellows. Or couch-fellows. When Bucky and Clint keep encountering one another in the Tower in the middle of the night, it makes sense for them to strike up a friendship. At first, that’s all it is; late night movie-watching, exploring all the diners in Manhattan, sparring in the gym. But as they get to know one another, both men have to struggle to put a name to what’s happening. For Clint, who’s always been straight, it’s definitely confusing to have Feelings for another man. For Bucky, it means realizing that there’s nothing wrong with him. Now he just has to hope that what he has to offer Clint is "enough".
Relationships: Bucky & Clint, Winterhawk, bucky/clint, steve/sam
Series: Avengers are Aces [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803460
Comments: 12
Kudos: 113





	Lucky Bucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheoVanyar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoVanyar/gifts).



> My warmest thanks to Theo for giving this fic a sensitivity read and for valuable feedback on tagging and the title.
> 
> EDITED 6-26-2020. There's now an actual coming out scene between them. JFC, savvy, get your shit together.

Bucky was so tired. If only he could sleep. 

Actually, he _could_ sleep, for short periods of time, before nightmares and fragmented dreams would inevitably jolt him from his rest. Stark’s doctors offered him sleep aids, said it would help. But he was tired of having his head messed with, didn’t want to introduce chemicals. 

So he took his sleep when he could. And when he couldn’t sleep, he wandered the Tower.

When he woke up, rather than lying in bed in the dark, growing more and more tense, Bucky would get up, dress, and let himself out of Steve and Sam’s rooms in the Tower. The Tower was huge, shiny, impressive, like some kind of futuristic movie-set from the double-features of his youth. The AI, FRIDAY, was there to answer questions, if he had them, there were rooms full of shiny distractions; an entire floor of gyms and training rooms, a silent, high-speed elevator he could ride up and down like a ride at Coney Island, steam rooms, saunas, pools, an all hours coffee shop on the ground floor, a common area scattered with plush sofas, flat screen TVS, coffee makers, refrigerators bursting with food. 

It was a land of plenty, and after growing up pinched with want during the Depression, living on k rations during the war, and then only being allowed flavorless protein slurries when he was out of Cryo, Bucky at first found the Tower to be dazzling in its choice. So many activities, distractions, and forms of entertainment. But after a few months, even that lost its draw. 

Bucky--Bucky was _bored._

There was a kind of freedom in being bored. He had a choice. But, what to do with it?

The answer came to him via his fellow insomniac.

Hawkeye, Clint Barton, also suffered from nightmares and an erratic sleep pattern. At first, when Bucky began wandering the Tower, he and Hawkeye nodded warily to one another, maybe exchanged grunts.

If Bucky walked into the room and found Hawkeye stretched out on the couch, heavy-eyed, zoning out in front of the television, he’d find a reason to leave again. He was leery of being forced into conversation. Not like he had anything anyone wanted to hear about. Well, aside from the shrinks everyone wanted him to see, who he _definitely_ didn’t want to talk to.

After a while, however, Bucky grew tired of avoiding Hawkeye. One night, when he’d staked a claim on the extra-long sofa, watching an episode of a cooking competition without really paying attention, Bucky became aware that he wasn’t alone. The archer had slipped into the room and was lingering in the doorway, leaning against the wall. Bucky glanced at him and then back at the screen. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

After a few minutes Hawkeye drifted towards one of the armchairs, and lowered himself, sprawling out. They watched in silence, neither of them laughing at the jokes. “This show is dumb,” Hawkeye offered.

Bucky grunted. He tossed the remote at the other man, who caught it without looking. Bucky was secretly impressed.

Channel surfing proved fruitless. “How can we have like, a thousand channels and nothing to watch?”

Not answering, Bucky watched the channels flick by. He grunted without realizing it, and Hawkeye stopped, then went back. “This?”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky muttered.

“I don’t care,” Hawkeye shrugged, and they sat in silence, letting _The Invisible Man_ play out. “You probably saw this in theaters back in the day, huh?”

“I...think so?” Bucky struggled to pin down memories, sighed in frustration. “I get flashes.”

“Frustrating,” was all Hawkeye said, and Bucky was grateful he left it at that. They watched the rest of the movie in silence, and when the credits rolled and the title card for _Flash Gordon_ came up in the corner of the screen, Hawkeye stood, stretching. Bucky, tired but still far from sleep, was a little disappointed. It was less lonely, watching TV with someone else. “Snackage,” Hawkeye said cryptically and headed toward the kitchen. Bucky rolled over onto his stomach and watched the other man over the arm of the couch.

Shambling around in his Hulk flannel pajama pants and oversized hoodie, Hawkeye looked less like a highly-skilled and dangerous mercenary and more like a muscle-bound and slightly aged college student. Bucky’s lips tipped up a little. He didn’t think the other man would appreciate the comparison. The familiar sound of popping corn made him sit up with sudden interest, and the motion drew the other man’s attention. “You like popcorn, Barnes?”

“Love it,” he said, enthusiasm drawn out of him without filter, memories tumbling over one another in haste as they rushed over him. “We couldn’t afford it much, me and Stevie, but sometimes as a special treat we’d share a bag.”

The smile Hawkeye sent him was nice, “Well I’m making us _two_ bags and if that’s not enough we’re makin’ more.” He shuffled over to the restaurant fridge and rummaged inside, emerging with butter, and two bottles of Coca-Cola. “Lots of salt and butter?”

“Please,” Bucky said, standing up to walk closer. He leaned on the island, watching the other man pour Cokes over tall glasses of ice, and licked his lips, suddenly hungry. Once the popcorn, liberally salted and buttered, had been poured into two large bowls, they moved back to the couch, sitting at opposite ends. They munched in companionable silence, rising once more to pop another bag for Bucky, who had a serum-enhanced metabolism. 

Sated, calm, he was scarcely aware of the movie ending, all but ignored Hawkeye giving his feet a tug until he was lying stretched out on the sofa once more. He felt the light comfort of a blanket descend and mumbled his thanks. He was asleep before he heard Hawkeye’s reply, if there was one.

  
  
  
  


That night started a trend, a breaking of the ice between them. They didn’t spend every night together. Sometimes Bucky went to the gym and ran on the treadmill until he was pouring sweat, winded, and his legs trembled like calves’ foot jelly; then he would ascend in the elevator to the floor where he shared quarters with Steve and Sam and shower in his room before collapsing in bed. Other nights he’d swim laps in the pool until his sinuses burned with chlorine, rinse off in the shower and then return to Steve’s suite, try to read or learn more about the last seventy years online.

The internet. Wow. It held boundless information, but sometimes he still felt adrift. A lost man in a world that moved too fast for him. He was out of place and time and during the day, with enough people around, enough distractions, it was a little easier to forget that. But at night he had too much silent space.

A few weeks after they’d begun sharing space in front of the TV, Bucky couldn’t settle. Barton seemed pretty ‘chill’ as he called it, laying upside down in one of the oversized armchairs, head dangling off the edge of the seat, his face turning red. _Friends,_ a show of middling entertainment value, had been playing back to back for three hours and Bucky was so bored and restless he felt dangerous. Too big for his skin. 

Unable to keep still any longer, Bucky stood and went into the kitchen, opening the fridge and cabinets in turn. He didn’t want--actually he didn’t know _what_ he wanted. Sighing, he sat back down, fidgeting with his phone, trying to play a game.

Abruptly Barton stood, not seeming to be disoriented although he’d spent the last half hour upside down. “Come on,” he ordered, gesturing at Bucky, “Come with me.”

Bucky found himself responding to the order, which annoyed him, but he also found it inexpressibly comforting to be given direction. “Where are we going?”

“First, to get our shoes. Then we’re going out.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Man, this is the city that never sleeps.”

Shoes and hoodies on, they descended in the superfast elevator. Bucky smiled to himself.

“This thing is almost as good as repelling down the side of a building,” Barton enthused.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets, even though he had taken the precaution of wearing gloves, “But then you got the wind in your hair.”

“The uncertainty of what’s gonna be there when you land.”

“People screaming.”

Barton didn’t respond, and Bucky went mute, wondering if that was too weird. Probably he shouldn’t miss that. Steve would be sad. He followed the other man through the lobby and out to the rain-slick sidewalk. They’d gone a few blocks when Barton spoke, “I do miss that, people screaming in shock and in awe.” Bucky glanced at him, feeling timid. “Anyone tell you I grew up in a circus family?”

“Naw,” Bucky said, feeling a prickle of school-boy excitement at the thought. “Like, a real circus?”

“Oh yeah...striped tents, sawdust, carnival rides, flimflam artists...the big top. I was an aerialist, and a trick archer.”

“That how come you throw yourself offa buildings without thinking?” Bucky smirked.

Barton huffed a laugh, elbowed him. “I don’t always do that.”

“Often enough since I’ve been fighting with ya.”

They walked through the city, which was indeed more vibrant at night than Bucky would have guessed. The only time he went out was Avenging, just about. Barton told him about growing up in the circus, though Bucky noticed most of the stories barely touched on his family, or how and why he’d left. Still, he didn’t pry. They all had their secrets.

Eventually their path led them to an all-night diner, lights a bright beacon in the night. “Decent food,” Barton commented, leading the way inside, “Fantastic coffee.”

The coffee was excellent, the food plentiful if not amazing. Bucky, unable to decide between pecan cheesecake pancakes and a bacon cheeseburger, ordered both. Barton shrugged at him, “Man, you got that crazy metabolism for something, right? Might as well be for cheeseburgers, and hash browns and, pancakes the size of your face.” 

It hadn't occurred to Bucky, to look for the pleasures inherent in what had been forced on him. The ability to guiltlessly eat two huge meals was a nice perk. Huh, he hasn't thought to look on the bright side. _Thanks, Barton._

They ate in companionable silence, in a booth with the best view of all exits. Neither was willing to keep their back to the room, so they sat next to one another on one side of the booth, tucking into their food like they’d been starving. 

Replete, calm, Bucky burped quietly into his fist and sat back, surveying the wreckage of dishes. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, man, no worries.” Barton gestured at the waitress, laid a couple of twenties on the table, called ‘thanks’ and ‘keep the change’ and they left.

“I coulda--”

“I got this one.” He shrugged easily.

“Thanks.” Bucky slid his hands back into his pockets, hunching into his hoodie again. He wondered if they might try this again some time. It was nice, getting out of the Tower. Being anonymous and safe. Grabbing a meal with someone low key. 

“You can get the next one.” Clint mentioned, jabbing the cross walk button. 

Bucky grinned all the way back to the Tower.

  
  
  
  
  


“You and Barnes getting chummy?” Tony asked, eyes bright, as he twirled a screwdriver between his fingers. He’d been working on repulsor arrows for Clint but they were taking a break. Pizza, the lure he’d used to get Clint to stick around through the boring science stuff, had just been delivered. He grinned, mischievous, or just being a jerk, hard to tell, "Spending a lot of _late nights_ alone with him.”

“Aw,” Clint groaned, staring sadly at the slice he’d just been about to sink his teeth into. He took a bite, purposefully chewed with his mouth open, glaring at Tony, “He’s a shitty sleeper, like me.”

“Seems like you both sleep pretty good when you’re cuddled on the couch,” Tony said slyly.

Clint put all his spy training to work, controlling his heart rate and blood flow. He willed his face to remain cool. “We don’t cuddle.” Much. Just the one time. Less cuddling, and more...sleep proximity. 

“That’s not what FRIDAY tells me.”

Clint shoved most of a slice in his mouth, rather than answer. That one time aside, he and Barnes definitely hadn’t slept together, and even if they had, it would have been sleeping only. He wasn’t gay. He could objectively appreciate Barnes’s haunting eyes and impressive physique, but only in the abstract. Clint had never had the desire to have sex with a man, and he still didn’t. Barnes was a buddy. A fellow insomniac night-owl with demons, and too much time on his hands.

He wouldn't have thought any more about it (Clint wasn’t big on examining things) except that in rapid succession he found himself in similar situations. With Tasha, who just looked at him, one perfectly groomed brow raised. With Sam, who asked him if there was anything he needed to talk about (even though he’d sworn up and down he wouldn’t be the Avengers’ team shrink). With Steve, who asked him to take a walk, clapped one big, fist-of-justice hand on his shoulder and asked him very solemnly if he was ‘sweet’ on Bucky.

_Gawd._ Clint went red. “I’m not--he’s not--I’m not gay, Steve.” He paused, “Um, is Bucky gay?” Or bi, since the history books were full of what a charming lady’s man Bucky Barnes had been back in the day. It wasn’t like the twenty-first century had invented bisexuality.

Steve regarded him calmly, “What Bucky is, well that’s for Bucky to tell you. But I’m here to say that it’s too soon. He’s not ready for anything, with anyone. He’s still learning how to be himself again.”

Clint nodded dumbly and let Steve think he was agreeing, but afterwards, the longer he thought about it, the more annoyed he became. Bucky wasn’t ‘learning how to be himself again.’ He was learning how to be an autonomous human, not a mindless subject. Part of who and what he was recovering was Bucky Barnes, sure, but he wasn’t that man any more. Steve was trying to hang onto someone who had changed.

Steve might be Bucky’s best friend, but it wasn’t _Steve_ whom Bucky sought out when he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t _Steve_ that Bucky explored new areas of the city with during the lonely nights. Bucky found restaurants and coffee shops he wanted to try and invited _Clint,_ not _Steve_ to join him. Bucky fell asleep with his head on _Clint’s_ shoulder, not Steve’s. 

At least, he didn't think so. They did share an apartment. Who knows how often Bucky night fall asleep cuddled up to Steve or Sam? Maybe he spent the late nights he wasn't with Clint with them instead. 

Clint realized he was scowling at the wall, hands tense, annoyance flooding through him. He kinda sounded like a jealous lover. He kinda _felt_ like one. But he hadn’t been lying to Steve, or himself, when he said he wasn’t gay. He just…wasn’t. Clint didn’t dream about Bucky’s ass or his thighs, he didn’t want to have sex with him, not any kind of sex.

But...he did think more than was probably healthy about Bucky’s admittedly beautiful eyes. Clint definitely had the urge to hug Bucky, to run his fingers through his hair. The night they had fallen asleep--the night they had cuddled, yeah, cuz they had-- on the couch he’d slept amazingly. So that meant something. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Bucky could tell something was up with Clint. He’d been skittish the last few times they’d shared the lounge. One night, when Bucky was too restless for TV, he’d suggested they race laps in the pool, and Clint had stared at him like he’d grown a second head before blurting that he had an appointment he was late for and bolting.

It had been two in the morning.

Since then, they hadn’t been alone. During a recent call the team got to assemble for a gunfight in the meatpacking district, Clint had covered Bucky’s six the way he always did. But when Bucky had gone to sling a comradely arm around him in the quinjet and thank him, Clint had shied away like he'd been burned. 

Bucky smoothed his expression and shuttered his eyes, pushing the hurt down. He didn’t know what was going on, except that it looked like what he had thought was a friendship wasn’t any such thing. Clint Barton wasn’t as comfortable with him as he’d pretended. Like everyone else he thought Bucky was a wildcard, a dangerous creature only half-tamed.

Bucky stopped going to the common room. If he found himself unable to sleep, he went into the gym and grimly pounded the reinforced punching bags until even his enhanced arms were trembling. If he was hungry and bored, he made a snack in Steve and Sam’s kitchen and turned the TV on low, trying to find the same enjoyment in dumb programs and old movies as he’d found with Clint. He didn’t need Clint Barton to make it through the lonely nights. He’d survived decades without anyone, much less a fair-weather friend.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Goddamn it. Clint hadn’t meant to hurt Bucky’s feelings. Confused and worried over what the hell he was feeling, he’d forgotten, like the dummy he was, to consider _Bucky’s_ feelings. 

After a week of being ghosted by the other man, Clint enlisted FRIDAY’s help to locate him. Bucky was training in the gym, going toe to toe with the obstacle course, his sweat-damp shirt evidence of how long he’d been at it. Clint climbed up onto one of the exposed rafters, bow and quiver on his back, to observe. Having made no move to be stealthy, he was aware Bucky had clocked his entry, but he continued to parkour off walls, scramble up ropes and obstacles, and duck and roll under swinging balls and lashing chains. 

Clint whistled sharply, clapping, “Good job, buddy!” His keen eyes saw the minute tensing of Bucky’s muscles, and he sighed. “Looks like you’re acing this...want a real challenge?”

As he’d hoped, the words of challenge gave Bucky pause, and he stood, breathing swiftly, but not raggedly, ear tilted back toward Clint, not looking at him. “Like what?”  
  


For answer, Clint drew an arrow, nocked it, and let fly, smiling as the arrow whistled just past Bucky’s ear. Close enough to make most people wet themselves, not enough to so much as harm a hair on Bucky’s head. The soldier, however, didn’t flinch, but turned, lips tilted into a smile, rising to the challenge, eyes bright, “Try me.”

He was off, cutting and swerving through the room, seeming to anticipate Clint’s next move. None of the arrows were in danger of piercing him, but several times they came ass-clenchingly close. When Clint’s quiver was empty, he slung his bow back over his shoulder and applauded. “Not bad, Barnes! Not many people can avoid me.” He paused, “But then, you’ve been doing it for a week.”

Bucky stilled, facing away, shoulders moving with his breaths. Turning, he glared up at Clint through strands of hair which had fallen from the messy bun knotted at the back of his head. Clint, who had spent the last week doing a lot of thinking and even some research, admitted to himself that while he still didn’t want to have sex with Bucky, he’d very much like to slide his fingers into Bucky’s hair and taste Bucky’s mouth. 

“Thought that’s what you wanted,” Bucky said, mouth flat. His eyes were impossible to read from this distance, even with Clint’s eyesight. “Just keepin’ my distance.”

“I’m sorry if that’s what you thought,” Clint said honestly. He grimaced, “I’m shitty at talking about feelings, man. But I think we need to.”

Falling still, Bucky glared at him. “What do you mean, feelings?”

Clint tightened his thighs on either side of the girder, cracked his knuckles. “I think I’ve got a crush on you.” Seeing the confusion on Bucky’s face, remembering his lack of knowledge when it came to modern slang, he amended, “I’ve got feelings for you. Romantic ones.”

Tension flooded Bucky’s frame, and after one swift, wounded look, he was gone. Clint stared after him, heart falling. Shit.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sam stopped in the hallway, making sour faces at himself. God damn. God damn Steve Rogers and his puppy dog eyes and his beautiful mouth and his, “Please, Sammy, for me?”

Muttering, Sam stepped out into the living room, finding Bucky slumped on the sofa, glowering at the television. “Hey buddy.”

Bucky snorted. 

Okay, fair. They hadn’t exactly gotten to the buddy stage, although things were better between them. It had taken a while, but Bucky wasn’t trying to murder him anymore. _And_ he’d apologized for ripping Sam’s steering wheel and his wings off. _And_ Sam had realized that not only was his massive crush on Steve not only not in danger because of Bucky Barnes, but that it was actually requited...yeah, they were good. 

Sam dropped onto a nearby chair, sighed, “You _know_ how stubborn Steve is. He wants me to talk to you, so we’re damn well gonna talk.” Bucky muttered something that might have been uncomplimentary about Sam’s boyfriend, but since he was kinda mad at him too, he would let it slide. “I’ve been designated the one to talk to you about this, which is kinda your lucky day, because it’s about feelings and sex and do you really wanna talk to Steve about that?”

Bucky stilled, head tilting down, shielding his face with his hair. Sam winced. “Yeah, I’m not looking forward to it either, but Steve’s worried about you, man.” He paused, admitted, “So am I. We thought you were doing pretty good. You been spending a lot of time with Barton--” Ooh, yeah, definitely something going on there. That was a full-body flinch. “--and I was like, hey that’s nice, he got himself a friend. But Steve, see, Steve is just a big old mother hen and he worries about you like a ninety-year old grandma, which, okay, he kinda is.”

Bucky snorted softly and Sam grinned.

“So the problem is, Steve’s frettin’, convinced Barton’s pressuring you to do things and feel things you’re not ready for _. I_ figure, you have no trouble removing yourself from a situation you don’t like, I’ve seen you do it myself. But...you don’t talk much. Thought maybe you had some worries you might like to talk over.” Sam sat, waiting.

“Don’t want to talk to anybody about sex,” Bucky finally grumbled.

“That’s alright, man. Lots of people don’t feel comfortable talking about it.” His mouth quirked, “Especially guys, most of us would rather just be doing it.”

“Don’t want to do it, either.” 

The words dropped into the stillness between them, and Sam’s eyes widened fractionally. It was more than he’d expected he’d get. “That’s okay,” he soothed, “You’ve been through a lot. No one expects you to be ready for sex yet.” He frowned, “Has _Barton_ tried--”

“No!” Bucky snapped, glaring at him through his messy hair, looking every inch the terrifying killer he was capable of being, “No, he hasn’t. And no, I don’t want it. I don’t _ever_ want it--never did.”

  1. Okay...that, that was not something he was prepared for. Bucky Barnes was in the history books as a legendary playboy. Sam blinked. “Is this, um, something new?”



Bucky scowled at his hands, metal and flesh, knotted together on his thighs. “No,” he said at last, grudgingly. “I...I remember that much, from before. I never wanted it. Not like other fellas did. Not like Steve did.” He swallowed, the sound painful in the silence, “I’d take girls out, talk a good game, show ‘em a good time, but I never--them bein’ good girls made it easy. I never, I never had to do anything I didn’t want.”

They sat in silence, not because Sam didn’t know what to say, but because he wanted to respect Bucky’s courage in admitting that. Finally he leaned forward, arms on his knees, trying to see Bucky’s face, “Hey Bucky, man? Thank you for sharing that, I know that’s personal, and I want you to know I’m humbly grateful for you trusting me enough to tell me.”

Bucky shrugged, but Sam didn’t miss the quick, shy, upward cut of his eyes towards Sam’s face. 

“Really, coming out as asexual is a huge deal, and I know that after all you’ve been through, making yourself emotionally vuln--”

“What?”

“...What?”

“I’m--what did you say? I’m asexual?” Bucky shook back his hair, met Sam’s eyes, anxious and curious and nervously licking his lips. “You called me asexual.”

So maybe they had _a lot_ of ground to cover. “You know how I’m gay, and Steve’s bisexual?” At Bucky’s nod, he went on, “There’s a lot of orientations, Bucky, and one of those is asexual. It means different things for different people,” he went on carefully, knowing he didn’t know enough about it to answer all of Bucky’s questions, but also not wanting him to think he was shying away from it. “I can help you find some resources, answer some questions, but you should know, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Bucky’s eyes glossed, and he suddenly looked so young and vulnerable, despite the lines in his face, that Sam’s heart ached for him. He was just a kid, after all, thrust into war, ripped out of life, and put through hell. Emotionally he was still about twenty-two years old. Sam slipped out of the chair and onto one knee, holding out a hand, rejoicing when the other man hesitantly let him take it. “You mean that?” he asked, low and rough.

“I do, Bucky,” Sam said firmly, trying out a reassuring smile. He squeezed Bucky’s hand, “Nothing wrong with you not wanting sex.”

“...Clint…” was all Sam heard, and his heart sank. Oh yeah. There was another part to this equation.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Steeling himself, Bucky knocked on _her_ door. After his talk with Sam, he had looked online and found a bewildering amount of information on the subject, almost more than he could absorb. Sam had counseled him not to fall too far down the rabbit hole of online forums and unverified sites, and Bucky had finally vetted a couple of sources and ordered hardcopy books. 

While he could appreciate the vast amount of information online, and the ease of instant access, Bucky was old-fashioned enough to prefer holding an actual book in his hands. Made things feel real. Weighty, solid facts. Given the gratifying, almost stupefying, speed with which you could buy things online, the books had arrived the following day, and he’d stayed up for two days straight, reading. Or not straight, as the case may be. His lips tipped up in a little smile. It felt nice, knowing there was a name for what he was, that there were others out there like him. 

Armed with that knowledge, he’d felt mostly ready to tackle the second part of what had been eating at him. Clint.

No one knew Clint Barton better than the woman now standing on the other side of the open door, regarding him with a sardonic brow and a slight smile. “Barnes.”

“Romanov,” he returned, holding out an insulated carrier. “I brought dinner.”

Her smile went sideways, “A bribe?”

“Call it manners.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” She stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. “By all means.”

Removing his shoes, he followed her into the kitchen, watched as she brewed tea, plated food, and then joined her at the table. They sat, napkins on laps, full plates in front of them, quietly demolishing food, eyes on one another. When she’d finished, Romanov sat back, wiped her lips delicately and cradled her tea glass between her graceful, deadly hands. “How can I help you, Barnes?”

“I’m asexual and I’m in love with Clint Barton.” He said it calmly, but his heart kicked in his chest like a mule. Adrenaline demanded he jump up and run, race, disappear. 

Something shifted in her eyes, and he faltered. “Did you come to me because I’m his friend or because I’m also asexual?”

Well that was unexpected.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Clint was miserable. He missed Bucky. He missed their late nights, dumb TV, silent dinners. Missed falling asleep with him in the room, knowing he was safe. Missed having his back when they were in danger, missed devising ways to make practice and sparring more interesting. Missed his laconic texts when Tony was waxing long-windedly over something during ‘team dinners.’ Missed seeing the little curly half-smile that was usually all he granted people.

Missed the bigger smile he’d given Clint a couple of times. He missed what might have been if he hadn’t fucked things up like he always did. Missing Bucky was a permanent pain just behind his ribs.

So when, on another late, lonely night, he was zoned out in front of the TV and Bucky suddenly appeared, Clint wasn’t entirely certain, for just a minute, that he hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamed it.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Clint sat up slowly, afraid of spooking him.

Bucky looked at him, shaking back his hair a little. “Can we go talk somewhere private? Somewhere FRIDAY won’t be listening?”

“Uh, sure.” Clint’s brain was scrambling, even as he stood. “We can--my room?”

Bucky nodded, and Clint breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was really, really glad that Bucky had found him. They rode the elevator in silence, Clint stealing little looks at Bucky, face growing warmer with each glance, which he always found being returned. Pink rode high on Bucky’s cheeks as well, by the time they arrived at the floor where Clint’s room was located.

Bucky looked around curiously, “How’d you get a room and everyone else has apartments or whole floors?”

Clint grimaced, “Man, Tony’s over the top about _everything._ He tried to stick me in this big suite, all purple and chrome and just--it was dumb. I refused to move in and he whined and bitched and pointed out he’d spent a lot of money--which I didn’t ask him to do! Finally got tired of him complaining, so I told him I’d move in, if I could pick my space.”

Bucky smiled a little, “I like it. It’s nice.”

Clint grinned, “Yeah?” He’d never felt so house-proud before, pleased that Bucky approved. 

“Homey.”

“Used to be a couple of overflow rooms, meant for future expansion of the heating and cooling system.”

Bucky laughed, eyes fond, “Sounds about right.”

Clint shrugged, embarrassed. “I have simple needs. Besides, I can’t hear the air handlers when they kick on, unless I have my ‘aids in.” He fidgeted, nervous. “You, uh, wanted to talk to me?”

Nodding, Bucky drew in a deep breath, “Yeah.” He then stood silent, rolling his lip between his teeth, worrying it. Curling his fists, he stared at the floor, clearly nervous. Nerves bubbled agitatedly in Clint’s gut, answering the call. “Yeah,” Bucky said again.

“Is this what I said in the gym? About my crush?” He sucked in a breath, “You can forget it, Bucky, honestly. Last thing I want is for you to feel like you gotta keep your distance.” He met Bucky’s eyes, “I’ve missed you,” Clint breathed, “you’re my friend and I scared you off, and I’d rather we never talk about it than go another week with you mad at me.”

‘’You thought I was mad at you?” Bucky shook his head, smiling a little, that half-curl that Clint had missed so much. “I was, a little, at first. Thought you were making fun of me.”

“Why would you--”

“You were married to a woman. I’ve heard you talk about women--never about men.”

“I never thought about a man romantically before you,” Clint confessed. He scratched his jaw, “I uh, well, I’m as confused as you...you’re the first and only, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky seemed poleaxed. He blinked at Clint, mouth a little open. “Really?”

Clint bit his lip, smiling, “Yeah…” He took a deep breath, plunged in. "Don't take this wrong, but. I don't want to have sex with you." Bucky's eyes flew up to his, shocked, and Clint hurried on, panicking, "I don't want to have sex with any man! Not just you. I'm, uh, biromantic, apparently. But straight?" He shrugged lamely, "So that's a thing. For me sex with a man isn't in the cards." He wanted to press his hand over his racing heart, "Doesn't stop me from wanting to kiss you though, or tell you how freakin' much I love you."

"You...love me?" Bucky looked almost pained. His eyes appeared shiny. Staring away, he let his hair hide his face. "Clint..."

Crap. "Too much?" Bucky shook his head, looking back, and yeah, those were definitely tears in his eyes, but he was smiling too, and Clint's stupid, hopeful heart took off.

"Not too much," he rasped, biting down on a smile. "It's..." he didn't finish the thought, seeming stunned. Clint ached to hold him, but he still wasn't entirely sure how Bucky felt about it. Somehow he had pictured this going better, if they ever got here. Like he could tell Bucky he loved him and bam, that would somehow solve everything. No wonder his marriage to Bobbi hadn't worked out. Jesus. Dummy.

"That's...huh." Bucky blinked at his boots, risked a glance up at Clint. "I guess. Um. I guess tonight's a night for confessions..."

Clint held his breath, a little thread of worry making it's way through him, wondering what Bucky might possibly be about to tell him. Please don't let it be that he wasn't going to consider a relationship where he wouldn't get sex, and that he didn't want to be friends. Clint _needed_ Bucky Barnes in his life.

"I love you too." Bucky's words, softly spoken, dropped into the stillness that surrounded them. Clint's heart took off, and his cheeks felt flushed and stiff, blood rushing to his face as his heart threatened to burst from excitement. Before he could move to cover the space between them, Bucky spoke again, voice low but firm. "You should know. I. I mean, I just found out myself--I didn't even know this was a _thing._ Jesus, the future has too many choices, it's kind of overwhelming--"

Clint bit his fist, "Oh my god, Bucky, _what?"_

Bucky blinked, thrown out of his tailspin. "Oh. Um. I'm asexual?" He shook himself, said more confidently, "I'm asexual."

“So...what’s that mean?” Clint rocked on his heels, wanting to reach out and touch Bucky, but not sure if he should. "Do you--how do you feel about relationships? Like, romantic ones? Cuz I know that some asexual people are aromantic too." Bucky's eyebrows rose. What? _He read._ He'd done _research._ He went on hastily when he saw Bucky's bewildered, worried expression. "I mean, if you don't want sex with anyone, and I don't want sex with you--sorry, that sounds bad!--then is romance out of the question? Like...how would you feel about a kiss?" He inched closer, hopeful. "Cuddling?" God, he'd really missed sprawling on the couch with Bucky, and the idea of getting to do it while holding him in his arms...! "Maybe...taking naps together?"

"I don't know how I feel about all of that," Bucky said low. "It sounds pretty good." He straightened his shoulders, "If I didn't like something I wouldn't want to do it again. I'm done with pretending I can't wait to get in somebody's drawers." His face scrunched sourly, "So what does this mean?"

Clint sighed from the soles of his combat boots. “It means we need to talk about our feelings and expectations.” They grimaced at one another. “Dude, I know. I suck at that too.”

Bucky was pained, “I think it was easier telling you I’m asexual.”

Clint eased closer, took Bucky’s hand, “This alright?”

Bucky was shyly pleased, “Yeah.” He wound his fingers through Clint’s and smiled at him.

“Let’s do this shit together, alright?”

Bucky squeezed Clint’s fingers, “Together.”

  
  
  
  
  


Steve was so solidly torn between being worried about Bucky and being pleased for him that it was kind of funny. Sam trolled him mercilessly about being an old fussy grandma and Tony joined in. Natasha started calling him Babushka. Steve was not amused. Publicly, that is. Privately he had to laugh that the world saw him as some infallible symbol of strength, dignity and freedom. Meanwhile his friends had all chipped in on a t-shirt emblazoned with I NEVER DREAMED I’D GROW UP TO BE A CRAZY GRANDMA BUT HERE I AM KILLING IT.

Steve wore it proudly. But not until he’d shrunk it in the wash so that his ‘man titties’ as Tony insisted on calling them were nearly bursting out. Watching Sam’s lust meltdown was a treat in and of itself.

When all was said and done, he wanted nothing more than for Bucky to be happy--if that meant that he had to step down from his natural position of monumental worry and let Bucky make his own choices, well...as Sam pointed out, Bucky was due some autonomy. Besides, whatever was going on between the two men, it clearly made him happy.

They weren’t particularly handsy, but if they were in the same room they were ninety-nine point nine percent likely to be leaning against one another. During strategy meetings and in the quinjet they sat next to one another. Steve had noticed that Bucky sometimes wasn’t in his bedroom in the mornings, but he refrained, with _admirable restraint,_ from fussing.

Really he deserved a reward. Which was why he wore his crazy grandma shirt and casually lifted the sofa out of the way to look for a ‘lost’ sketchbook so that Sam suddenly experienced a very urgent need to drag him into the bedroom. Steve smirked. He was _such_ a good strategist. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


“What’s going on between Legolas and the Murder Cyborg?” Tony asked loudly, coming into the common room to find Barnes asleep with his head in Clint’s lap, Clint’s fingers in his hair. Without taking his eyes off _Dog Cops,_ Clint flipped him off. It was really eerie how Barnes echoed the motion without opening his eyes. “Creepy,” Tony muttered.

Natasha glided past him, the only sign she was tired and sluggish, the slight pallor of her face and the swelling of her upper eyelids. She cut her eyes at him and he blinked, “Uh, you know what? None of my business.”  
  


She grunted, and reached for the coffee pot, scowling when it wasn’t there. Bruce, sipping his herbal tea, held out a steaming mug for her, “Saved you some,” he offered, and she grunted again. “Barton was cradling it like a baby earlier. I managed to pry a cup out of it before he bit me.”

Natasha’s mouth curved into a smile, and Tony scowed, “Hey, big guy, what about me?”

Bruce shrugged, “She’s scarier.”

Natasha, looking smug, drifted back towards her room, and Tony pouted glared at Bruce, “In my own house, Brucie. My own _house.”_

“There, there,” Bruce laughed, patting him on the back, “Wanna go do science?”

Tony brightened, “Yeah!”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the TV, instead focused on the feel of Bucky’s hair tangling around his fingers, the pattern of Bucky’s relaxed breathing. They’d been dating for a few weeks now and he was honestly happier than he’d been in maybe forever. 

Dating Bucky Barnes meant someone to laugh at dumb TV with, someone to laugh at his muttered asides during debrief. It meant falling asleep with someone breathing soft and peaceful in his arms, waking up to a mouthful of Bucky’s hair, his sheets smelling like Bucky’s soap. It was Chinese food and campy horror movies at three in the morning, a boyfriend who brought him cups of lethally strong coffee in bed before Clint had even blinked the sleep crust out of his eyes.

Dating Bucky was comfort and happiness, friendship and soft, soft romance. Sharing t-shirts and fighting over the remote, having someone who knew just where to scratch your back. It was rough fingers wound through yours when old demons kept you awake. A broad chest rising and falling under your cheek as you fell asleep in one another’s arms. 

Clint had worried at first that he would miss sex, but honestly he’d gone years without anything other than his own hand, and he wasn’t sure why this would be different. Sex was easy, disposable. Love like this was scary, exhilarating, addicting. He’d a thousand times rather be able to get into Bucky’s heart than anyone else’s pants.

Scarier than letting himself be vulnerable to love like that had been his worry that without sex, he wouldn’t have much to offer Bucky. But Bucky wanted him without sex, had fallen for him without wanting it. Knowing that he, Clint Barton, was enough for Bucky, was humbling. 

With that kind of high he figured he could be more than satisfied with his hand.

No, Clint didn’t miss sex at all.

Bucky snuggled his cheek down a little more snugly to Clint’s thigh, making a little wordless sound of contentment. Clint’s heart flipped in his chest. Goddamn, he was one lucky bastard. “Happy, baby?”

  
  
  
  


Bucky was nearly asleep, soothed by Clint’s fingers weaving through his hair, scratching his scalp. He hummed contentedly and burrowed a little closer, curling his metal fingers over Clint’s knee. _Dog Cops_ played softly in the background, a low accompaniment to their cuddling. His eyes drifted closed every time he tried to keep them open, so he stopped trying. He wasn’t tired. He’d slept good the night before. He always did when Clint held him in his arms. 

The first night the two of them had shared a bed, he’d worried initially that he would find it odd, or that his nightmares would make him too restless to be a good companion, Bucky had been relieved that he slept through the night. Clint had done the same, confessing with a smile in the morning that he’d been worried too. 

No, Bucky wasn’t tired. He was _happy._ Content. Safe and coddled and relaxed. He could get used to having Clint at his back, literally and figuratively. Big as he was, Bucky wasn’t accustomed to being the little spoon, but after some adjusting and compromise, they’d discovered through trial and error that he enjoyed being held. Clint’s strongly muscled arms were perfect for wrapping around him, his solid chest a comforting presence at Bucky’s back. Feeling his warm breath stir the hair at his nape, blow across his cheek...bliss.

“Happy, baby?” Clint asked, hushed, brushing soft fingers over Bucky’s ear, trailing down his cheek. He traced the shape of Bucky’s smile, dipping his pinky into the dimple that had appeared in Bucky’s cheek. Bucky had blushed hot pink when Clint confessed he loved Bucky’s smile and his dimples, had found himself unable to stop smiling at the knowledge. He also loved being called _baby,_ and _good lookin’_ and _doll face._ That last one made him laugh--just what Clint intended.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky hummed drowsily, slipping his fingers through the torn knee of Clint’s jeans, seeking his skin. They’d been doing a lot of reading--separately and together--and Bucky now knew he was suffering from something called skin-hunger. He and Clint were both touch-starved. Fancy words for not being able to get enough of touching one another. It was a hunger though, a deep need. Now that Bucky had begun, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to stop easily. Luckily, Clint had an equal desire to touch, and cuddle and kiss. 

Their happiness was palpable, everyone around them seemed to sense it. Even FRIDAY knew that if Bucky was having a bad day, she could patch Clint’s comms in to him and Clint’s voice would soothe Bucky. It might have made Bucky feel needy and weak, except that Clint, the last time he’d been on a mission with Natasha, had called him in the middle of the night, voice low and hesitant, and haltingly admitted that he missed Bucky so badly it physically hurt. The little thrill of delight he’d felt was probably not nice, but he was the Winter Soldier so hey, he could be not-nice sometimes, right?

“Hey Clint?”

“Hmm?”

“You hungry?”

“Always.”

Bucky blinked, sitting up, running his hands through his tangled hair, “Wanna go get pizza and play arcade games and then neck on the top deck of one of those dumb tourist buses?”

“I love you so much,” Clint said fervently, tackling him to the floor and straddling Bucky so he could kiss him stupid. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one,” Bucky said goofily, grinning at his boyfriend.

“Lucky Bucky,” Clint crowed, cackling, and Bucky groaned, shoving him off of him.

“Forget it! I don’t love you, you giant _nerd.”_

“Aw, Bucky…”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a series I am planning. The second story will be Natasha/Bruce. The third story will be Wanda/Vision. All pairings involve at least one asexual partner. There will be no sex, but there will be some cuteness, cuddling, fluff and a lil dash of pining/angst/misunderstanding. Mostly these are just intended as feel good stories.


End file.
